


Project Octocock is a Go

by Newtavore



Category: Homestuck
Genre: (Very Slight), Awkward First Times, Blow Jobs, Body Dysphoria, Language Kink, M/M, Oral Sex, Spanish Striders are my Lifeblood, Tentabulges, Troll Anatomy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 06:28:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3280178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newtavore/pseuds/Newtavore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“...Holy shit.”</p><p>He drags head up again, trying to rally the last of his waning focus; Dirk is staring down at his crotch with a mixed expression on his face and suddenly, Dave is more self conscious than he’s ever been.</p><p>“You have been hiding two giant prehensile tentacle dongs from me. Are you serious. We could have been having so much fucking fun with this, man, why’d you have to go and keep it to yourself?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Project Octocock is a Go

**Author's Note:**

> Kinkmeme fill: http://homesmut.dreamwidth.org/39716.html?thread=45165348
> 
> The request was for a fic inspired by this lovely piece of artwork: http://nvvn.tumblr.com/post/32418724867/tarecgosexy-man-dicks-weird-me-out-too-much-to
> 
> I would definitely recommend looking at the pic. Definitely. It's... very nsfw.

It doesn’t take long for Dave Strider to realize that he’s not quite like other boys his age.

 

For one, he’s sort of missing a dick.

 

There are other differences, of course- most people don’t have his combo of tan skin and white blonde hair, and the bright red eyes are sort of a dead giveaway, but the main part he seems to be lacking in comparison to every other boy is, in fact, a dick.

 

All that’s between his legs is a slit, and, at age twelve, though he is curious, he is still confused by what Texas deems a sexual education class and is cautious and wary enough to not touch it, or look at it, or acknowledge its presence.

 

But even though he doesn’t seem to have the same bits and pieces as everyone else, Bro has called him li’l bro for as long as he can remember, and he’s grown up a boy, amidst other boys, doing boy things and wearing boy clothes. It doesn’t matter if he has a vagina, or if he’s missing a dick- he is a boy, even if his body seems to think he’s a girl. 

 

Except... things that should happen, don’t. He never develops breasts, or gets a period, or anything one would associate with having the body of a female. He grows hair in copious amounts in places he’d rather not name, and puberty comes with a cracking voice and embarrassing dreams and everything he’d read up on, and everything he’d learned in class. He’d ask Bro, but that is not a conversation he wants to have with the kingpin of the puppet porn empire. In fact, if he can avoid talking about sex or anything related to sex with Bro, forever, he’d be the happiest person alive.

 

And then Bro dies, and he never has the chance to be embarrassed by being given the talk, or to have condoms show up in his shoes, or whatever the hell else his paranoid, weird ass brother would have done.

 

Because he plays Sburb, and suddenly things are far, far too busy to worry about what is or isn’t between his legs.

 

People are dying, he is dying, everyone is dying and there’s no time for anything like extraterrestrial exploration of human anatomy, until suddenly there is time.

 

Three years worth of time.

 

Three years with nothing better to do than watch alien porn and touch himself, even if he’s… wary to, at first.

 

Because he knows, logistically what one is supposed to do with a cock- you grab it and move your hand up and down, how hard can it possibly be- but a cunt? He’s clueless.

 

So, he experiments.

 

He finds things that make that weird tingling set up in his stomach, and he watches them, and, tentatively, he reaches down to touch himself. And he thinks he does a pretty good job, up until the massive doubled tentacle dong shoots out his supposedly human crotch.

 

He will never admit it, but he might have shrieked. He might have shrieked a lot, actually.

 

But, with more research- and more porn- he discovers that, through some horrible, strange, weird twist of fate, he is not, in fact, the possessor of a vagina. He is, in fact, the possessor of a troll nook and bulge. Bulges, to be precise, because there are fucking _two of them_.

 

It has to be Karkat’s fault.

 

He’s not sure of the hows or the whys or anything in between, but this has to be Karkat’s fault. The mutant troll had been in charge of the ectobiological shit, and he had to have fucked with him in some way- maybe he spit into the vat of Davesauce as it was cooking up another awesome baby or something, maybe he jacked off into it because he’s a fucking lonely loser with no life, maybe he pissed into it as some sort of weird primal dominance instinct, he doesn’t know. Maybe sheer spite on the troll’s behalf had changed his downstairs into a tentacled freakshow. All he knows is that he has a crotchmonster in his pants, and it’s all Karkat’s fault.

 

And then shit goes down again, and time slips through his fingers; there’s no spare second to think about crotchmonsters or tentacle junk or anything that isn’t stay alive, stay alive, keep them all alive-

 

And then it’s over.

 

It’s over, and he has nothing to do but drift through the dream bubbles and think on all the things he could have done differently. For a long time, he is far too miserable to worry about what is between his legs, because why think about the logistics of jacking off with troll junk- the logistics of a human having troll junk in the first place, really- if he can sit on a rock in the middle of nowhere and castigate himself for his perceived failures for all eternity?

 

So he drowns in misery for a while, a long while- and then he meets Dirk.

 

Dirk is… Dirk. There isn’t much he can say about the other boy, besides the fact that he looks like Dave’s Bro, but is decidedly not Dave’s Bro. He’s Dave’s bro, but not his _Bro_ , you know? And he knows that he’s Dirk’s bro but not his Bro, not the right Bro, and they get along with a sort of stilted awkwardness for a while, but neither of them can quite leave the other alone.

 

Something about Dirk drags Dave out of his miserable spiral of self blame and mopey whiney woe-is-me, and something about Dave… manages to bring a smile to Dirk’s face.

 

They interact, and slowly get less awkward about things, slowly fall into a pattern, a rhythm of interaction that’s almost as good, sometimes better than what Dave had with his Bro- because as much as he’d respected Bro, as much as he’d admired him, Dave’s not sure if he _loved_ him. Bro had been his Bro, but he’d scared the shit out of Dave. The puppets, the strifes, the pranks and surprise attacks, and the lingering feeling that nothing he did was good enough… it isn’t there with Dirk. Dirk is like his Bro, except he’s… human. Less an idol and more a person, less a god on top of a lonely mountain and more a living thing he can interact with, can touch and be touched in return by.

 

Dirk is real, whereas at times, Dave had been positive that Bro… might have been a figment of his imagination. Dirk is there, in a way that Bro never was.

 

So their awkward interactions become smoother, fall to a rhythm, and they grow closer. Ever closer. Inappropriately close, but he supposes time spent with trolls has made him somewhat desensitized to the idea of incest, because when Dirk kisses him, soft and inexperienced, he cups warm cheeks in his hands and responds, rather than pulling away in disgust. Are they even technically related, really? They’re clones, strange babies made in test tubes by an alien race that functioned in a separate dimension of their own. Does incest even really apply? If it does, at this point, with the human race dead and gone, with them dead and gone, does it really matter who he gets his rocks off with?

 

He supposes that their thought process must be similar on that matter, because that kiss opens the way for more kisses and more touches. They kiss and touch and grow ever closer, but he never lets Dirk do anything below the waist. Well. Dave had gotten the other boy off multiple times, with handjobs and blowjobs and on one memorable occasion just by grinding his knee up against the front of Dirk’s pants while kissing him and tugging on his hair, but he’d never let Dirk reciprocate.

 

Because now that he wasn’t wallowing in misery, he had plenty of time to think about the crotchmonster in his pants and how horrified anyone else would be, to discover that in place of a cock.

 

He’s not sure Dirk knows much about troll anatomy, but he definitely knows a lot about trolls, and he does not like them. They’d taken away everything he’d ever known, killed his brother and destroyed his civilization, murdered his friends and family and himself, in the end.

 

He does not like trolls, and Dave isn’t sure how he’ll react, to having troll junk shoved in his face.

 

Besides. Besides, Dirk is perfect, when he’s in the throes of pleasure. He’s got the best o-face Dave’s ever seen, and he makes the sweetest noises when he grabs a handful of hair and pulls…

 

They’re at Dirk’s place now, actually, and he’s doing just that, gripping white-blond hair in his hands and tugging the other boy’s head back, baring his throat so Dave can lean in and drag his tongue over it. Dirk, inexperienced and oversensitive as he is, contending with only Dave’s touch after so long without, whimpers out a plea for more, hips already moving, grinding up against nothing as he clutches Dave close. He could do this for years, for decades; he doesn’t think he’ll ever get sick of watching Dirk fall apart, and he says so as he marks the column of his throat with bites, humming softly to himself in counterpart with Dirk’s higher, more desperate noises.

 

He’s the experienced one here. In the realm of pleasure and sex, he’s the one who knows the most, ironic as that is. He’d been free with his kisses when he’d been alive, though he’d never let anyone touch him, and he’d learned plenty on the meteor, touching and kissing and bringing pleasure to stressed trollfriends- because what the fuck else are a bunch of hormonal teenagers going to do on a meteor all by themselves for three fucking years? Nothing, that's what. So his hands are as skilled as his mouth, but not once had he ever let anyone touch him. It was just… too risky, too strange, too weird, and even now, when Dirk’s hands ghost down over his back, reaching for the waistband of his pants, he bats them away before turning back to his throat, mouthing over smooth, freckle spattered skin.

 

“Dave,” he murmurs, panting, hands gripping his waist and aiming to drag him in, bring him close, “Dave, dammit, please… All I want to do is touch you...”

 

He doesn’t have the same twang as Dave and Bro do, or did; his voice is smooth and inflectionless, with the generic, all american accent of television programs and movies. Still, it’s the prettiest thing ever when he begs, even if what he’s begging for is something Dave’s not quite sure Dirk's ready to handle.

 

“Goddammit, Dave-”

 

Dirk mumbles something like a curse and suddenly the room is spinning, his body flipping from upright to belly up as he’s pinned down, pressed against the coffee table with Dirk’s hands around his wrists, holding him still.

 

“The fuck, man? Why won’t you ever let me touch you?”

 

Dave squirms and shifts but Dirk’s grip is strong and relentless; there’s no escaping his grasp, or the eyes that bore into his own. They’re white, but if he imagines hard enough, he can make them turn orange, but then they look too much like Bro’s eyes and he has to close his own, turning his head to the side.

 

“What’s wrong? Do you not like this? Is it a sex in general thing or a me thing-”

 

Dirk rambles, and Dave… doesn’t actively _ignore_ him, not really, but he does do a little bit of tuning out, at least until the older boy has wound himself down. He knows better than to try to get a word in edgewise when Dirk starts fretting over something.

 

“It’s not you, it’s me,” he says, and even he can’t stop the quirk of his lips when Dirk rolls his eyes and snorts at him, thumbs brushing over the slim curves of his wrists, “No seriously. Look, I don’t want you to take this as anything personal but I just...”

 

He lets his head clunk down against the table, because it’s easier to stare at the ceiling than than it is to meet Dirk’s searching gaze.

 

“I’m not exactly packing what you’d expect, okay, and I’d rather not you run out of the room screaming. We’ve got a pretty good thing going and that would definitely damage my sex god reputation.”

 

The stare he gets in response would almost have been funny, if not for the seriousness of the discussion topic.

 

“So you won’t let me touch you because you have nonconforming junk in your pants and you’re afraid that, what, I will suddenly become a judgemental asshole and kick you out?” Dirk says, staring down at him with one eyebrow raised high above the angled line of his shades; Dave studiously stares at the shiny silver barbell pierced through tan skin there, tapping one foot against the floor in time with his heartbeat.

 

“Dude, I do not care what you have in your pants as long as I can get you _out_ of them,” Dirk groans, dropping his head down and smushing it up against Dave’s shoulder; the younger teen wrinkles his nose as blonde strands tickle it, suppressing the urge to sneeze.

 

“I have been waiting to get my hands on you for a long fucking time, Dave. It’s frustrating as fuck when you constantly wave me off whenever I try to touch you, you know? I feel useless, like I’m not reciprocating enough, like I’m making you do all the work and that does not lay smooth with me. So I solemnly swear on my own sacred junk that I will not be freaked out by what’s in your pants.”

 

“...Promise?” he says, voice inexcusably soft; Dirk looks down at him and sighs, his hands shifting from Dave’s wrists to his cheeks, cupping them gently and pulling him in for a kiss.

 

“I promise, you dipshit,” he murmurs fondly, and the tension lining Dave’s shoulders relaxes. Dirk keeps his promises, he always does; not once has Dave seen him redact or renege any sort of agreement or assurance before, and he doubts Dirk will start now, with him.

 

When the older boy’s hands slide down, down over his chest and sides and stomach, to tug at the hem of his pants, he doesn’t shove those prying fingers away. He’s tense, again, but he doesn’t object when Dirk picks at the button of his jeans, then at the zipper, and he doesn’t push him back when one warm, broad hand slides in to cup him through the material of his boxers.

 

It’s already strange, to have someone else’s hand there; he bites his lip and his hips tremble as he keeps them from bucking up into the touch, hands clenching and relaxing on the rim of the coffee table reflexively. The tips of his bulges are curling out already, but they slide further into the open as Dirk’s fingers brush up against hypersensitive skin; he lets out a pitiful gasp, head dropping back, throat bared, body trembling ever so finely at the sudden rush of stimulation.

 

“...Holy shit.”

 

He drags head up again, trying to rally the last of his waning focus; Dirk is staring down at his crotch with a mixed expression on his face and suddenly, Dave is more self conscious than he’s ever been.

 

“You have been hiding two giant prehensile tentacle dongs from me. Are you serious. We could have been having so much fucking fun with this, man, why’d you have to go and keep it to yourself?”

 

Dirk teases him, coaxing his genitals out of their protective boxer hideaway and into his hands- Dave can’t help the choked off noise he makes in response, something like a gasp but more guttural and less embarrassing, hopefully. Dirk’s lips press against his throat, and he lets out another trembling noise, lips parting around his breaths; the older boy slides down, pushing up his shirt to kiss at his stomach, shifting from straddling him, to sitting on the floor between his legs, fingers tangled with his bulges.

 

“I… god, Dave,” he murmurs, licking his lips; there’s a sort of hunger there that Dave’s never seen before, a sort of deep, harsh desire that’s almost frightening to look at. Dirk feels so deeply, sometimes, that it’s scary, like standing out at the edge of the Mariana’s Trench and looking down and knowing that it goes further and further below the surface, further than you could ever imagine. His feelings run so deep that Dave doesn’t think he could ever understand some of the things Dirk feels, and he thinks now might be one of those times.

 

“I think… I’m going to tease you just as much as you teased me,” he says, and god, his tone, his lips, the heat of his skin, the way his fingers squeeze and flex as Dave’s bulges curl around them so needily… god, it’s too perfect, and he’s about to scream.

 

He wants to grab Dirk’s head and just thrust in, but that’s rude as fuck and he’s got at least a little bit of composure left; instead, he whimpers needily, rocking his hips up into Dirk’s hands with a soft plea. Because that’s so much more dignified.

 

“C’mon man,” he groans, writhing, “Dude, please, c’mon you said you wanted to touch me, wow look here I am spread out like a Hawai’ian feast for your consumption-”

 

Dirk laughs, and Dave lets out a startled bark of noise as he feels something warm and wet drag over the length of one writhing tentacle, Dirk’s tongue, his tongue--

 

“More like a Mexican fiesta,” he says, and then, much to Dave’s consternation, “Voy a comerle a cabo.”

 

For a moment, he can’t even react; it takes a bit to process the mangled words and terrible accent, but when it finally registers, his face crumples, and suddenly he’s laughing too hard to breathe, flopped over the coffee table with a hand over his face as he howls. Dirk’s still got a grip on his bulges, but he just can’t focus on the pleasure anymore, not right now, not after that.

 

“Oh my god,” he says, cackling, words interspersed with giggles, “Oh my god Dirk, did you get that from google translate, I bet you got that from fucking google, holy shit-”

 

He gets punched in the thigh, and kicks Dirk in the shoulder in retaliation; in response, one broad palm rubs over the base of both bulges and he groans, arching up into the touch.

 

“V-voy a com-merte hacia fuer _rrra_ ,” he gasps as steady fingers stroke over the length not currently being teased by a hot tongue, “That’s- that’s how you say- _ahh shit Di_ -”

 

He breathes out all at once, the wind knocked out of him as surely as if Dirk had just punched him in the stomach; the other boy drags his tongue slowly over the soft little fronds covering the underside of bulge number one again, and he grips the edges of the coffeetable and moans, driving his hips up. God, it feels so good, so fucking good, and he can feel how nasty he is, dripping everywhere like a leaky faucet, but Dirk just rubs his fingers over the base of bulge 2, thumb stroking over the slit of his nook.

 

It’s wide, now, open to touch and receptive to penetration and he is desperate to be full; Dirk appears, however, to be enjoying exploration of terrain far more than the mining for minerals part most explorers dive for, no matter how Dave wiggles his hips and rocks down in encouragement.

 

“Voy a comerte hacia fuera,” he murmurs, lips curling up in a smirk; Dave only has a moment to appreciate the suddenly highly impressive accent before Dirk’s face is up in his business, tongue licking a long stripe up the sensitive folds of his nook.

It’s like all the stupid cliches he’s ever heard about sex are all coming true at once; fireworks are in his stomach, stars are in his eyes, and it’s like a trail of fire licking its way up his nook, like a fucking torch lapping over his most sensitive area, but if Dirk is made out of fire then it’s the most pleasurable fire he’s ever felt.

 

His body aches with it, back arching further, hips trembling as his ecto-clone-brother-whatever holds him still and licks over him like he tastes like sweet candy; gasping, breathless, he squirms, one leg slung over Dirk’s shoulder, his hand braced on it, as if to give him something to push against. He clutches the table with his other hand, grip so tight he’s probably going to leave finger-shaped warps in the wood; he couldn’t care less. Then maybe Dirk will be reminded of what happened here every time he sits down to watch television. Hah. Hopefully he’ll enjoy never being able to watch his shitty programs without popping a boner ever again.

 

“Por favor-” he moans, tripping over his own tongue, languages mixing and getting confused the further into pleasure he falls, “Please, Dirk, por favor please do something tócame _por el amor de dios_ -”

 

Dirk shudders, and he groans in response, bucking his hips up as much as he can in such a leverage-free position, arms trembling from the stress of gripping at his pants and at the table underneath him, to keep from grabbing the other’s hair. Because as much as he wants to, if he does, then he won’t be able to control himself and god, the last thing he wants is to accidentally choke his on-again-off-again friends-with-benefits sex buddy on his weird alien junk.

 

It feels so good it almost hurts, and for some reason he can’t really breathe right, mouth open and gasping, one hand fisting the fabric of his pants- because his goddamn ecto-sibling thing had been too impatient to just take them off and now his jeans are going to be soaked, and he’ll never be able to wash the stains out of these boxers ever again, oh god-

 

He presses his foot against Dirk’s shoulder for support, and the blond barely sways, easily taking a good chunk of Dave’s weight as the boy arches and ruts against his tongue, head tossed back and body on display. He’s… he’s a sight, that’s what, and Dirk can’t help but press in deeper, flicking his tongue over the base of Dave’s bulges and lapping over him till he’s whimpering high and needy, nook fluttering like he’s about to come.

 

“Dirk,” he moans, the leg not crooked and pressed against the other’s shoulder kicking out, shoe scraping against hardwood flooring with a squeak, “Fuck, fuck ah-  el dios por favor _déjame_ -”

 

“Let you what?” Dirk murmurs, pulling away to lick his stained lips, “Let you go? Let you up? Let you leave?”

 

He whimpers, shakes his head, thrusts his hips up against nothing as his bulges writhe and tangle with each other, body taut as a bowstring and ready to snap.

 

“Let me come-!” he spits out, panting, “Let me- let me come fuck please-- please Dirk por favor _déjame venir_ -”

 

Dirk swallows down one bulge, tongue rubbing over the little fronds along the underside as his hands wrap around the second, thumb pressed to the base of both; he strokes, hums, and glances up at Dave once- he’s not sure which sends the smaller blond over the edge, but something does, and suddenly red genetic material is spilling everywhere, splattering over his hands and into his mouth, staining the coffeetable and the floor underneath it.

 

He whimpers, head dropping back as he arches into the tight, wet warmth around his length, hands clawing at the wood beneath him as he falls apart. He’s never felt anything like this before, never felt so fucking good, and it just never seems to end; it goes on forever, and ever and ever and ever until he’s trembling and sobbing and crying out, and Dirk pulls off him to come press soft, messy kisses to his lips to silence him. Hands shift him, moving him from the table to the floor where he’s free to sprawl, loose-limbed and limp, body quivering with oversensitivity as he’s slowly weaned down from the high of orgasm by gentle hands.

 

“Shh,” Dirk says, and he opens his mouth but only garbled Spanish comes out, mixed up and beyond recognition; a finger is pressed to his lips and he goes quiet, the only sound that of his frantic panting as he tries to catch his breath.

 

He’s taller than Dirk but Dirk’s stockier than him; when the older boy picks him up, arms under his ass and holding him close to his broad chest, his shoes bump against Dirk’s knees, and his pants are still sagging around his hips but he can’t be fucked to pull them up and get them buttoned. He’s still a mess anyways, there’s not even a point, and Dirk apparently agrees because when he’s laid out on a bed his shoes are first to go, then his pants, and his boxers, all cast to the floor off to the side.

 

A cool cloth presses between his legs and he shudders; his bulges have slid back to the netherworld from whence they came, or the bulge sheathe or whatever the fuck Karkat had called it, and all that’s left his his poor, overstimulated nook to take all the sensation. It feels good, but in an achy, trembly kind of way, and he pushes weakly at Dirk’s hands as he cleans the slurry off Dave’s thighs, touch soft even if the cloth is sort of scratchy.

 

“Calm down, unless you want your legs to be glued together when you wake up tomorrow,” he murmurs, and Dave groans, but lets his legs fall open anyways, accepting the coddling even if it does ache. He’d rather not end up stuck together with his own genetic material, and hey, this way he doesn’t have to move, or clean himself up, or put any effort into anything whatsoever.

 

Dirk hums to him, not really a tune or a song, just making sounds with his throat as he cleans; it’s a habit he picked up from being alone for so long, Dave knows, and he’s never really minded it. It’s nice, having audial confirmation he’s not alone; he’s always been a sound guy, more than a visual one.

 

“C’mere,” he says, spreading his arms; when Dirk just stares at him, deadpan, he makes grabby hands like a toddler, all dignity and pride tossed out the window long ago.

 

“C’mere and let me jack you off,” he says.

 

He gets a sheepish look and a shrug from Dirk, a duck of the head and a sort of embarrassed tumble out of bed to grab a change of clothes; when he shuffles off his far too tight pants, Dave sees the white smear of cum over his abdomen and the cloth that had been covering it.

 

Dirk fucking Strider had come in his pants like a horny fifteen year old, and he’d been the cause of it.

 

“Oh shut up,” Dirk grumbles, tossing the cloth across the room, where it hits his chest with a splat, “I see that smug look all over your face. Don’t you dare say anything.”

 

He remains ever so obediently quiet, for once. Quiet, because the less he teases, the faster Dirk gets his ass into a pair of clean boxers and loose pajama pants, and the faster the other boy slides into bed next to him; the cloth gets dropped off the side of the bed, and he gets pulled back against a slim chest.

 

It rises and falls and keeps time with his, and he sighs, curling back against Dirk’s warm skin, pressed back to chest and flesh to flesh, the rhythm of Dirk’heart beating steadily against the curve of his spine.

 

This… is good. This is good.

 

“Love you, Dave,” Dirk mumbles, face buried in his thatch of straw-coloured hair, cheek pressed against the top of his head.

 

He can practically feel his heart melting, chest warming, everything to the tips of his fingers and toes heating with pleasant tingles. He rubs his cheek against the pillow under his head and lets out a huff of breath, closing his eyes as he’s snuggled mercilessly.

 

Ah, the curse of the Strider octopus-arms. He’s not going to escape any time soon, that’s for sure.

 

“Te amo también, Dirk,” he breathes, almost too quiet to hear, but he can feel the curve of Dirk’s smile against his skull, and the squeeze of arms around his waist.

 

Things may have been shit, but…

 

This is good.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The gist of the spanish is basically "I'm going to eat you out" and then variations of "oh god touch me please" and "let me come". I am not a native spanish speaker and if anyone else knows better than me how to phrase this then please let me know, I'll fix it right away. 
> 
> Edit: Thank you, MissterXenon, for the phrasing help!! 
> 
> [used http://www.reverso.net/text_translation.aspx?lang=EN to get the translations]


End file.
